


Sub Umbra

by Domimagetrix



Series: Sexyske [2]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Extremely slight spoiler for "Fate of the Gods", Other, Sexyske, VERY Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 02:57:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domimagetrix/pseuds/Domimagetrix
Summary: A few clarifications between the World Guardian and Sliske prior to entering the World Gate and seeking Zaros. (Also, for reasons, a stab at second-person POV. I like trying new things.)So, uh, Sexyske. Because Sexyske. I'm so sorry.





	Sub Umbra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tribunus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tribunus/gifts).



Insects stir as you make your careful way through the ankle-deep grass, the late afternoon sun warming you through your clothes even as the breeze promises crispness in the evening to come. It’s too beautiful an afternoon for grave matters, but grave matters rarely await situationally appropriate weather to present themselves, and so here you are.

It’s odd, seeing the Mahjarrat ahead in the full blast of sunlight. You’ve seen him in shrines and temples, solemnly observing rituals by lantern and candlelight. You’ve seen him standing in his skeletal form while a snowdrift obscures the hem of his robe. Deep within the confines of a pyramid. You’ve always felt the urge to stand a bit taller in his presence, even as you realize he’s honed the ability to inspire such responses in others for eons before you were born. It’s manipulation, but it’s damned effective manipulation and your spine straightens.

Azzanadra’s garnet gaze finds yours as you approach, and - regardless of the amiability or antipathy in the relationship you’ve enjoyed before - both eyes and voice are near bursting with excitement. “World Guardian, can you feel it? The time nears for the Empty Lord’s return.”

_ Can you feel it  _ nearly draws a hysterical giggle from you, but you manage to subdue it with some effort. “I’m not sure how that’s going to happen in a clearing by a mountain. Where’s this World Gate?”

Zaros’s premier representative manages to look as though he’s stepped in something unpleasant even though his excitement. “Hidden. In the Shadow Realm, no less, and we will need some assistance in making it visible.”

The Shadow Realm. Of the three Mahjarrat capable of accessing it, two would sooner sing Saradominist hymns than render aid in returning Zaros to Gielinor. Only one would be willing.

One with whom you’ve already had so many dealings, and one that guarantees to be a complication in an already buggered situation. “You don’t mean-”

Azzanadra nods, that pinched look still marring his features. “Yes. We will need help-”

Shadowy striations whirl around each other next to you, a tornado that stirs nothing around it and yet robs the air of some of its warmth. They sink inward and form another Mahjarrat outline before disappearing, leaving the Master in their place. 

Sulfuric yellow eyes take in the pair of you with amusement. “You most assuredly  _ do  _ need help. Serendipitous timing for my arrival, wouldn’t you say?”

Sliske, no longer in the casual silk shift and attired in his shoulder-accentuating robes bearing Zarosian emblems as well as masks, lifts a hand and gestures grandly to the glade around him. “You know, if you’re going to go travelling to other planes, you might require a gate of some sort. The two of you might as well be having a picnic out here without one.”

Azzanadra’s face evolves from pinched to disgusted. “Yes, we’re well aware of that, Sliske. The Gate rests in the Shadow Realm, and that means-”

Sliske waves a hand dismissively. “That you and the dear World Guardian have need of my services.” He smirks at the other Mahjarrat. “You’re a perfect connoisseur of the obvious, Azzy. I believe our mutual friend and I can sort things out from the other end while you work out what time of day it is.” 

A gloved hand falls on your shoulder as he addresses Azzanadra again. “This could take some time. Fine-tuning the logistics of transfer, placement, ensuring nothing gets lost along the way.” He winks at you. “It would be a terrible shame to lose any valuable resources in haste.”

Azzanadra’s sigh is weary. “Just do what must be done, Sliske. Our Lord has waited long enough already.”

Every bit the Master of theater as in all things, Sliske curls his hand to his midsection with a flourish and bows briefly. “As you command, Bunny Ears! Big Boss will be here before you know it and you can settle all your pent-up frustrations.”

The other Mahjarrat inhales to snarl something, but Sliske’s hand tightens on your shoulder and color bleeds from the world around you. Sunlight dims as though filtering through an overcast sky, the sound of insects fades to silence, and a strange new architectural feature has been revealed near the now partially-shrouded form of Azzanadra - a great upright circle of stone, hollow, with crumbling and worn stone stairs leading up to it and a pair of stone dais to either side of the stairs.

You scarcely have time to marvel at it before the hand on your shoulder turns you roughly, and Sliske’s face becomes the whole of your field of vision. He’s crouched to a kneel and dragged you with him, and his lips find yours before a question can form.

Need. Gone is the carefully crafted provocateur and showman, the veneer stripped away to reveal a possessive and demanding Sliske. His tongue traces your lips and parts them, and you can feel his arms move around you as something goes sliding off. One of his hands finds the back of your neck and rests there, claws aligned in a careful curve along the nape, and you realize it’s the gloves that have gone.

The other hand goes to your shoulder, thumb and fingers stroking in uncharacteristic softness. The threat from one hand and affection from the other are too much and you sink into the kiss, your own hands pawing in frustration at the robe before one finds the opening at the collar and sinks to one side of it, fingers divided between the outside and inside and your own thumb pressing into his chest. You straighten the digit so the nail can press against his skin, and a slide of the hand down the material drags the laughable little threat down in a hard line.

Laughable or no, Sliske inhales sharply, stealing a bit of the air from you. His tongue pushes, teases, explores as though tasked with memorizing you perfectly, his grip on your shoulder less gentle and the claws at the back of your neck pricking the skin.

You grab one of the lapel straps and pull him in, touching your chin to his pronged one to hold the kiss at bay and start nipping along his jawline. His pause is brief before he turns his head to permit you better access. You work your way back, following the pale stripe to his neck, nuzzling and licking your way to his ear. One of his hands goes to his hood and pushes it away.

Sliske allows himself to sit in the grass as you clamber up to a more proper kneel, the hand not at his chest now stroking and exploring one of the lines of ridges atop his skull. Your mouth finds his ear, tongue and teeth alternating over the outer arc up to the delicate, sharp tip.

You touch that tip with your tongue, and he exhales in a long, shuddering gasp as his claws seek your back. They tear through cloth and scratch, ignoring the simpler method of simply lifting your shirt to achieve the same ends. 

_ He’s lost control. The tip of that ear, my, what an interesting find this is. Is it  _ that  _ sensitive? _

Testing the idea, you brush your lips against it. He moans. You capture the little point between your lips and suck, and he writhes beneath you and the nails responsible for ruining your shirt drag down and to either side, long lines of pain that force your body against his chest. 

You stop, whispering into that sensitive ear. “Say my name, Sliske.”

He offers you a whimper. You lick up to the tip again but stop just shy of it, feeling the claws in your back release and sink again in new places. “Not good enough. Say my name and tell me what you want. Your body is already doing it; I just need the words. Tell me you need this, that you want this.”

He inhales, a sharp intake of breath that worries you. He says your name and it’s honey over marble, smooth and sweet but unforgiving. “I want you to remember your place.”

With  _ place,  _ he shifts his hips and legs, turning the both of you until your back hits the grass as his hands fall away. One of his robed legs moves between yours and he lowers himself, pinning you with some of his weight while a hand to the grass takes the rest.

You expect him to reassert himself, punish you, and yet he turns his face to the side, the edge of one amber eye watching you intently. “Do it.”

The side of his neck is exposed. One of your arms worms between his arm and his back, drawing him in tighter, and you sink your teeth at a point where one of the pale stripes of skin sits juxtaposed against the darker gray.

Hard. Harder. Sliske’s whisper-scream is the bliss of music as his lower body collapses, the feel of his leg draped over yours now accompanied by a second pressure atop your thigh. He squirms and presses it tighter against that leg, rubbing like a feline urging you to focus your attention there.

You release him, looking in to bear witness to your work. The flesh there is weeping blood slowly, sluggishly, but he makes no effort to heal himself. His head instead turns fully to you and he drinks you in with a half-lidded gaze comprised of both need and satisfaction. “Is that what you want?”

You nod. 

Sliske smiles then, the odd blend of possessiveness and affection in the expression puzzling. He leans in, drawing lips and tongue over your ear, your shoulder, your collarbone, the front of your throat. He’s teasing, exploring, and searching for the _right_ reaction, measuring the helpless jerks and undulation of hips below him for some signal only he understands. He chuckles here and there in response to particularly intense reactions, a low _hnnhnnhnn_ against your skin to which you can only respond with inarticulate sounds.

His exploration leads to juncture of shoulder and neck, a little hollow that draws a full-throated yelp from you. His tongue applies pressure there and the feeling is followed by careful teeth, but a hint of them is the only indulgence he permits before he draws back and kisses you briefly on the mouth and pulls farther away. 

He grins, a glint of sharp canine visible. His free hand reaches to your hair, stroking it and threading through it before tightening in a grip. He dives in as though striking, the teeth seeking purchase and finding it. He stills and the teeth disappear, diverted to licks and tiny bites winding up to your ear. He bites an earlobe, and the words travel on the carrier wave of his sigh. “Beg me.”

You cry out and he chuckles again. Another lick to your ear precedes his words. “That’s lovely, my dear, but it’s not what I told you to do.” He rubs his lower body against your leg, belying his “disappointment” with the feel of protruding hardness. “Let’s try this again. Did you understand what I said?”

You manage to slow your panting long enough for an  _ mmmhmm  _ to escape.

The feel of a single canine against your ear tells you he’s grinning, although you can’t see it. His voice is measured in equal parts sweetness and threat. “Good. Now  _ beg me.  _ I won’t be so gentle if I have to say it again.”

You try, but words are beyond you. That, and the promise of  _ won’t be so gentle  _ piques your interest even as it terrifies you. You open your mouth, a wordless half-mewl escaping in lieu of words.

He chuckles again. The fist in your hair jerks, angling your head upward and exposing your throat more openly. It hurts and your hips lift to grind against Sliske. The yelp torn from you is half surprise and half pleasure. 

It seems to satisfy him, but only just. “Don’t make me say it again. BEG ME.”

_ “Please, Sliske. Please do it.”  _ Your right leg bends at the knee and wraps around his. 

He strikes again with that reptilian grace, no tease or preparatory licks this time. Teeth sink in at the meeting between shoulder and neck and you scream, struggling. 

Sliske’s body sinks to hold yours still with his weight, his fingers twirling and tugging in your hair. You gasp, the pants almost sobs, each exhale a thready whisper of “yes.” Over and over you tell him, the punctures in your neck throbbing with your pulse.

He releases you, tongue lapping once at the wounds before he pulls back and stares down at you with those amber irises lost in true darkness. “You’re mine.”

Another breathy “yes” is all you can manage. 

The stripes bracketing his mouth stretch and warp slightly with his leer, his tongue flicking to the side of his mouth and licking away a bit of your blood. The hand in your hair relaxes, and he lifts it to point to the marks your less lethal, blunt teeth left in his neck where the collar was drawn away. “Would you have this remain?”

You nod.

He drops from the half push-up and brushes your lips with his own before righting himself and standing. He tugs at the collar and brushes grass from his robes almost blithely, but the audible panting tells another tale. He pulls and adjusts until the weight of his robes falls properly again, and he offers you a hand.

You take it, and he lifts you until you stand. His hand releases yours and curls around the back of your neck, and he walks you until you stand almost toe-to-toe with Azzanadra and face the now irritable-looking Mahjarrat half-shrouded in shadow. 

Sliske sounds terse. “He would have you worship his almighty Empty Lord, and probably himself for good measure.”

Still dizzy and aching in a multitude of ways, you nod.

The claws dig into the back of your neck. “You don’t belong to Zaros, or to Azzanadra.”

Still drawing air in and out a little too fast, you nod again. “I don’t belong to them.”

Sliske’s hand tightens more. “Neither of them are the one you call ‘Master,’ are they? No matter how truly foreign and imposing Zaros proves to be, and no matter how this pious bore intimidates, your allegiance falls with neither of them. Nor to whichever god you’ve aligned yourself in name.”

“None of them.” Your throat is dry, your legs uncertain beneath you.

His breath teases strands of hair near your ear. “Tell him.”

Confusion and excitement war within you. “He can’t hear me.”

His voice is slick with promise. “He could. It would be so very easy for me to  _ slip,  _ for our dear Pontifex to see and hear us, perhaps just a flickering half-image and a ghostly voice to reach him as you reveal yourself.” The thumb on your neck begins to circle, half a caress closed with the drag of a claw, endlessly. “Can you imagine how, oh, how terribly  _ humiliating  _ it would be for him to see you like this? Bedraggled, bitten,  _ owned,  _ refusing him and his god with your true Master’s hand around your neck?”

You look up at the uncompromising visage of Azzanadra, for a moment permitting your imagination to entertain the image of his features becoming slack with shock, then accusatory, and lastly disgusted. Spitting insults, turning away.

You smile. “I can.”

There’s a pause from behind you. Sliske’s voice is low, thrumming with something unfamiliar. “You’re not alarmed by that at all, are you?”

You lift a hand and caress the fingers wrapped around your neck. “I am, but not ashamed.” You swallow, the next words a gamble. “I’m not ashamed of you.”

Azzanadra’s eyes stare tiredly through you as you speak to him, and you ignore the catch of breath from behind you. “I don’t answer to you. I don’t answer to Zaros. My only Master is Sliske.”

His other hand goes to your shoulder before you can continue, and you’re turned, gently, until you can see a face forever contorted in parodies of emotion suddenly and subtly altered with a real one. His eyes have gone a warmer gold, the claws at your neck are gone, and one of his fingers rests beneath your chin.

There is no warning, only Sliske bending until he can reach you, and a kiss. A  _ new  _ kiss, softer, but more insistent. You meet it press for press, moan for moan, your hands at his arms gentle as his are on you as he draws you in.

He pulls away first, reluctantly, his voice more sober than ever you’ve heard it before. “I’m afraid we’ve used more of Azzy’s patience than we should. To business, but before that…”

He dips again and kisses you once more. Just a brush of lips and a blip of suction before he stands tall again. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, and opens it again. “Remember what you’ve said here when Zaros is before you.”

You nod, reaching a hand up to rest against the side of his face. “I will.” Your thumb traces his cheekbone and the soft gray stripe below his eye. “Remember it, too… Master.”

Sliske steps away and toward the stone, stopping to collect his gloves and pull them back on. He catches the wrist of one between his teeth and tugs until it’s firmly on his hand, offering you a trace of his old smirk and the damnable flash of canine before letting it go. “Perhaps you should arrange yourself a bit before we return, hmm?”

You run fingers through the tangled mess of your hair as Sliske pulls the hood of his robe to cover his head, the little widow’s peak top resting above his eyebrow ridges. You straighten your own shirt, hissing as fingers meet the wound at your neck.

Instinctively you go to tug the shirt over the marks, then let the edge fall back, leaving it open to view. You smile at Sliske. “I’m ready.”

His smile still holds a trace of the oddly genuine softness as he watches you turn the edge of the shirt down, then morphs into his salesman’s grin. He winks, and - with another flourish of both hands - color and sound again saturate the world around you.

Azzanadra nearly offers a smile at the sight of the World Gate, but his features become speculative as he stares at the two of you. “That seemed an unnecessarily long time for ‘arranging the logistics,’ Sliske.” His eyes dart between the other Mahjarrat and you, pausing for longer as he takes in your state of disarray. “What could you two have possibly needed-”

Sliske’s unctuous voice interrupts him. “Oh, just making a few assurances before our World Guardian goes about the business of retrieving Zaros. Nothing you need concern yourself with.” 

The Master turns first to one dais and then the other, pressing things and causing the World Gate to spin this way and that before its core blooms to whirling life. He gestures you toward the gate. “Safe trip, dear, and tell His Emptiness I said hello!”

As you mount the steps and the world begins to waver between the cooling afternoon and some harsh, ragged landscape which must be your destination, you can hear the sudden bellow of Azzanadra’s voice from behind.

“SLISKE! THAT IS ENTIRELY UNBECOMING OF…”

The rest is lost, and Freneskae greets you on a trail of Sliske’s laughter.


End file.
